I worry.

I fret.

a stomach rolling

like a runaway truck down a mountain road

I worry.

I then ask.

Where is this going?

It is going,

going into the future,

I ease the clenching fists I have made

I let the strands run through my hands

following them as they trace their way ahead

Then I raise my hands.

“Something good will come of this.”

I breathe.

I walk.



I heard a story,

it came from your lips,

but it was my story.

I heard you say that God met you,

and your words echo in my chest.

So, the Divine came to you in your silent place, too.

The Divine wrapped you in love, too.

I heard a story,

it came from my lips,

and it was our story.

Give it to me

She opens her hands to me,

Putting hands together like a bowl.

“Give it to me.”

I release the anxiety and fear

Into the cupped hands of grace.

“I dropped it, it’s gone.”

I breathe deep,

realizing that I have been holding it in

Toxic exhalent held for far too long.

She pulls me in.

And I relax into her embrace.

I am home

And despite handing over the darkness

Into her cupped hands,

I am filled.

stirring up the bottom

at any given moment the sediment settles

as the water stills

the solids drop to the bottom

if left alone they will build in layers

calcifying and becoming stone

for some future expert to point to the timeline of my now stony stories

but something moves the waters

it is you wading into murky depths

with no fear of the unseen below

you swim and dance, churning up the silt

your fingers swirl in the disturbance

making my story curl and unfold at your touch

The Water washes particulates down stream

and I am left, washed and healed.

via Daily Prompt: Churn

Foreboding Joy



small and scared

with buttery fingers

and Teflon hands

I cannot hold the reality of this charity


I am terrified I will lose it

What is it to be happy

to be enraptured

to be swept away in wonder?

What is it to lean back into the bosom of tenderness?

I look at my hands



but then they are filled

and you hold tight

don’t worry Beloved,

I got you.

via Daily Prompt: Wonder

That that floats above me

two voices lift a song,

but they do not harmonize

the notes clatter

ping off the other

each reaching for me to hum along

one song has sharps, stuttering rests

 endlessly played demisemihemidemisemiquavers

punctuated crescendos that raise the noise to unendurable volumes

leaving me writhing in sorrow, shame and confusion

the other song was started before my birth

it is soft like the trees shaking loose their dew onto porch shingles

it does not compete with the other or manipulate my attention

but it is relentless




its tune carries my self, a rhythmic repeat of the shape of me

it is this tune that I reach my hands up to grasp

I listen for it even as the second songs raises its tempo in an attempt to  drown

When I sing along with the kind song, I have won

that moment

that day

or maybe this week


via Daily Prompt: Above


How would it be to know the future,

to know the path

to see the words before I choke on them

to make a plan most perfect

to have a life without trial

How it would be to side step the sorrow,

to never dry dampened eyes

to avoid the sting

to make a happy life

to have a life without grief

How it would be to hold the details

to all the tomorrows

to see the swell of change unfold

to make the decisive move

to have a premonition of bloom.

How will I work and pray into existence a tomorrow to behold?

by gratitude for the days unfolding

by seeing through the love that has been given even through the grief

by making peace and kindness my banner

by having silence befriend my anxious thoughts.


via Daily Prompt: Premonition

by the way of the sea

via Daily Prompt: Imagination

I am given the choice she says to follow a path to the sea or a path to the wood.

Oh Alexa if only I could!

Leave dreary winter days and bask near the water.

I shade my eyes from the sun

but my arms are bare

I hear the sound of gulls

the fragrance of salt in the air

I dig my toes into warm layers of sand

break through to the cool dampness below

the wind whips my hair around

draws tracks on my nape

a kind hand is held while skipping the waves

warm conversations while ice spins in the glass

sun setting slow with colors deepening

stars coming out while sleepiness creeps in

my day dream is ending as the moon is rising

What a dream, what a day in my imagination.


Prayers for the Wondering

Previously published October 1, 2015 on my now defunct blog The Thing to do with Hearts

Before me is a hundred options to be and to try–at lease it feels like that was true a decade ago;

now the options trickle in two by two if any by any at all.

Do I find myself in the wilderness of my own wonderings?

Have I avoided entering a land that I already hold residency?

Should I unpack the dishes or sell all my possessions?

Should I lay foundations or stay the stranger–the stranded–the out-of-placer?

I know you have called me beloved, but what does a beloved do?

beloved-sit-still-er or beloved-never-settled?

shhhhh…….quiet now. When you step to right or the left there will be a voice behind you saying,

“this is the way to go.”

Catalan Forge

My soul has been pricked

and my heart has been pushed

Blue, beautiful fire

Blue-Green, the hottest places in my soul’s furnace

Demands for justice in hot tears role out from that bloomery

the malleus drops

and the spark flies

igniting the willing furnaces around.

Who will be the Stoker, who will light the fires?

My inactivity is not a possibility

any shallow existence not tolerated

the flames lick up against the edges of my form

burning away the nonsense and fear

In my eyes the fire back lights

and glow narrow and steadied

my voice picks up among the others

instead of the cacophony of a 1000 hammers falling at random

we rise

we drop

we rise

we drop

together our voices



amplify the others

what begins in the furnace of the one

is now the fire of the people